


Theme and Variations

by Silvestria



Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/M, I wonder why a recently married woman might need to see a doctor, Post-Canon, Regency, Saccharine, Viola has a tea aversion, of course she does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: When Viola, Lady Emerson, finds that tea is making her feel nauseous, she calls for the doctor. But what is her husband going to make of it? Pretty predictable but sweet.





	

**January 1812**

The first time it happened, Viola could think it a strange accident. It was not completely implausible that Lady Tinsdale’s tea should be bad. Odd, to be sure, but not impossible. That Lady Tinsdale should not have thought it bad could be put down to the different amounts of milk that they took. Even that afternoon after she returned home and she ordered a cup of tea from her own supply to make up for her disappointing visit to her friend, it could well be the result of the same bad supply. She was so fed up after two bad cups of tea, however, that she had not bothered to order a replacement cup and had instead gone up for a nap before dinner.  
   
However, that Lady Gabriel should also serve her bad tea the following day made coincidence completely out of the question. There was one common link between all three experiences – and that was her. Once she had handed the housekeeper at Emerson House her bonnet, gloves and cloak, she went into her sitting room and rang for Robinson.  
   
Her maid answered the summons rapidly, unused to be sent for at that time of day.  
   
“Come in and close the door,” Viola instructed her. Miss Robinson did so. “I want you to do something very particular for me without question.”  
   
“As your ladyship wishes.”  
   
“Very good. I want you to make two cups of every single variety of tea we have in the house.”  
   
“Two cups, your ladyship?” queried Robinson.  
   
“Two cups.”  
   
Miss Robinson looked her uncertainty at this request but the Marchioness calmly stared her down. They knew each other too well for the maid to hold back or the mistress to need to do more than look. Then Robinson left to carry out her task and Viola put her feet her up on the chaise longue, the picture of leisure and ease, and opened the Society News.  
   
_News reaches us from the country that the elusive Lord A has made his pretty young ward Miss EC his heiress following an intimate birthday party at his principal estate. Does this mean that Lord A does not mean to marry at all? What a disappointment for those of us aiming at the highest title, but not for next season’s fortune hunters. Look out, Miss C! Though perhaps we are already too late and the Marquess has plans for his newly interesting ward. Otherwise why else would the highly eligible Duke of C make up one of the party?_  
   
Viola sighed. January was known for the paucity of its news though this snippet could be interesting if even remotely true. Most people were still in the country after Christmas and even the little season had barely started. She herself would have been in the country if Emerson had not had business in London and she had decided to accompany him en route to Yorkshire, where they were to spend the following month. She turned over the page.  
   
_No sign of confinement for the fascinating Duchess of B? Despite rumours to the contrary existing since last May, it seems likely that there is to be no happy event for the Duke and Duchess. Perhaps it is for the best. Her Grace will have her hands full this season with her sister making her debut. But how will Lady NR fare when put next to Lord A’s newly minted heiress? 1812 is already looking a year to remember!_  
   
Fortunately, Robinson returned followed by two housemaids bearing tea trays before she had to read about the new Duchess of L’s interesting condition.  
   
The maids laid out the spread on the table before Viola and were dismissed. Miss Robinson folded her hands in front of her and looked faintly disapproving. Viola smiled engagingly as she sat up straight.  
   
“Well, make yourself comfortable, Robinson, and join me. I hope you like tea.”  
   
“Me? Well, of course, your ladyship, but-“  
   
“Good. Then sit down and have a cup.”  
   
“Are you-“  
   
“Of course I am sure,” said her mistress, a touch more acerbically. “Why else did I ask for two cups? Now take a chair and sit down. Which is this one?” she asked, taking the first cup.  
   
Robinson had to put aside her surprise and did as she was bid. “This is China tea flavoured with bergamot.”  
   
“Excellent."  
   
Viola stared down into the flavoured water, for all that was all it was, and felt her stomach turn at the very smell. She sipped it and nearly gagged. She put it hastily down.  
   
“Does your ladyship not like it?” inquired Miss Robinson. She took another sip.  
   
“Do you?”  
   
“Very nice, your ladyship, a pleasantly smooth finish… I notice you did not finish your cup yesterday…”  
   
“Come on, try the next.”  
   
Over the next fifteen minutes Miss Robinson drank a great quantity of some of the finest tea that China and India could supply – and Lady Emerson began to feel so ill at attempting to drink it that by the end she felt she was really in danger of throwing up.  
   
“Stop, please, enough! I think I am going-“  
   
Her maid sprang into action, hastily replacing her cup on its saucer and making a leap for a vase of dried flowers just in time.  
   
Afterwards, while Robinson dealt with the mess and a housemaid swept up the flowers that had been unceremoniously emptied out of the vase, Viola considered her options.  
   
“I think you had better send for Dr. Meredith, Robinson – the younger one; both Lady Louth and Mrs. Vickery swear by him.”  
   
Robinson bowed her head, before saying with a slight smile, “If I may be so bold, I have been thinking for the past week or so that such a course might be sensible.” Lady Emerson raised her eyebrows. “Er, quite, this moment, your ladyship.”  
   
*  
   
When Lord Emerson returned home later that afternoon, he heard the sound of music drifting down from his wife’s upstairs sitting room. A smile breaking out helplessly over his face, he had no sooner handed his satchel and his hat and coat to the footman, before he took the stairs two at a time, coming to a stop in the open door, leaning against the jamb.  
   
Viola sat at the harp in a very fetching dress of deep pink, a colour he rarely saw on her, a few wisps of hair softly framing her face which glowed in the candle light, for it was already dark on this cool winter evening. She was playing a piece that was altogether unfamiliar to him; gentle, rippling chords created a restless, yearning melody that was nevertheless utterly enchanting. It had something of the nature of a lullaby to it, albeit one without words. She seemed utterly natural and it did not occur to him for one minute that she had given considerable thought to every element of the picture’s composition.  
   
“Darling wife,” he murmured, when she seemed to pause thoughtfully in her playing. He pushed himself off from the door and crossed the room towards her, smiling when she looked up and stilled the strings of her harp.  
   
“My lord,” she replied, looking up at him with a warm, kittenish look and he bent to kiss her, still feeling a thrill when her small hand reached up to clasp his cheek.  
   
“I have not heard that piece before,” he said when they parted. “Have you new music?”  
   
She smiled again, her lips pursed with some source of private amusement, and her hands returned to the security of the instrument. “Yes, it is new, but it is of my own making. Do you like it?”  
   
“Yours? Oh, very much, my love! Have you written it down?” He knew she fancied herself not much of a composer and had heard the few settings of Shakespeare songs that she had written.  
   
“Not yet.” She tilted her head and considered the instrument, silently running one finger down a string. “It is not yet finished.”  
   
Blake went over to the sofa and sat down. He held his hand out to her. “Come here and tell me all about it. It already sounds beautiful, Viola; I cannot believe it wants much revision.”  
   
She hesitated a moment then rose from the stool, smoothing out the pretty, pink dress. He admired her as she stood there, so much softer, so much _more_ than anyone would have thought of her. He loved her as she stood before him in her own sitting room, but he would also love her when she took her place at his side in public for their first season as a married couple.  
   
“On the contrary, Emerson, it is not nearly finished. I should like to add a violin part, for instance. I should like you to play it with me.”  
   
She took advantage of his surprise to cross over to the sofa, kick off her shoes and curl up at his side.  
   
“In that case,” he said, “you cannot expect to ever perform it in public, unless you mean Elise to play.”  
   
She shook her head. “No, I only want you to play and if it is never heard in public, that would be no great loss.”  
   
He narrowed his eyes at her and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Viola Emerson eschewing a public performance? Who are you and where is my wife?”  
   
She leaned forward onto him and murmured something into his ear that made him gasp and laugh and definitely proved that she was his wife and none other. She sat back, leaning into his arms and looking far too pleased with herself for that distraction. Then her expression softened into consideration. He was content simply to watch the play of ideas across her countenance and fiddle with the place where her sleeve bunched on her shoulder - how easy it would be slip it off and expose her fair skin…  
   
“No,” she said presently, “this piece is for us and nobody else, but I am afraid I shall not finish it soon. It is structured as a theme and variations and there are still so many variations to consider.”  
   
“Ambitious.”  
   
“Very.” She smiled at him rather delightedly and it occurred to him for the first time that she was in a very peculiar mood this evening.   
  
“Viola-“  
   
She put a finger against his lips. “I intend to perfect it this year, with your assistance. I expect it will be ready…” Her lip twitched. “In time for the hunting season.”  
   
“The _hunting_ season!” he exclaimed, unable to help it. “How many variations are you planning? Why, if you only wrote one a month, then you will have at least eight! And considering how much you managed today alone, you will be finished long before Michaelmas.”  
   
His wife raised her eyebrows. “The best things in life take time to perfect.” She smoothed his hair away from forehead and melted a little against him with a smile as warm as cup of chocolate. “As Dr. Meredith was so good as to explain to me this morning.”  
   
Then, while Blake was beginning to exclaim in concern over the fact that his wife had needed to see Dr. Meredith at all, it dawned on him that there was a strong possibility that the music was a metaphor.


End file.
